


A Perfect Role

by spiced_1990



Category: Spice Girls
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:48:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27613699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiced_1990/pseuds/spiced_1990
Summary: When you’d learnt you could be good at being a mum, you’d embraced it. And when you’d finally found someone you were comfortable being a wife to, you’d embraced that too.
Relationships: Melanie Brown/Geri Halliwell
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	A Perfect Role

**Author's Note:**

> alternate universe in that in this one, covid-19 is not a thing. would that it were so.

You’d tried your hand at acting once or twice, but like with almost everything else, it hadn’t quite worked out or stuck. People sometimes like to call you a jack of all trades and maybe it’s meant to be a compliment but it never sounds that to your ears, just a balm to the reality that no matter how hard you try, you’ll never be good at anything with the ease that most of your friends and peers are. Writing is the exception and you hold it close to your heart but, you’ve thought bitterly once or twice during one of your bad days, when the method of expression is sneered at or doesn’t even exist (because what record company wants you now), does that even matter?

And so, when you’d learnt you could be good at being a mum, you’d embraced it. And when you’d finally found someone you were comfortable being a wife to, you’d embraced that too. There’s a certain confidence that it brings, managing to tick off boxes that had long been empty, and it gives you a purpose that becomes easy to cling to. You’ve not naive, you know that one day the children won’t be under your wing, that your relationship with Christian might evolve into something different, but for now, it’s enough. 

Mel mocked you for it, laughed uproariously when you expressed your contentment in domesticity, but one day you realise you’ve been exchanging photos of goats and horses for hours over text and something in your heart trips to realise that maybe you’re not that different after all. Even after so many years apart, even with such divergent paths. With that brings the usual what ifs, and _ those _ are the moments that ruin your fought-for peace. 

Always have.

“When you’re done pretending, I’ll still be here, you know,” she’d said to you once, and you’d bristled at the implication that you’re simply trying your life on for size. Saying as much had brought a slightly disappointed expression to Mel’s face that had lingered in your mind for days. That she’d had the gall to say as much after  _ her _ marriage, after the masks and the walls and the refusal to let you in even a little bit… “I’ll still love you no matter what,” she’d said, wrapping you in a hug. You hadn’t said it back (a moment of petulance you’re not proud of), but you’d texted her later, reassured her that you love her too. 

It’s a regular evening meal when you notice the first cracks in the carefully constructed shell. Not that anybody would know. You keep nibbling at the carbonara Blue and your housekeeper have prepared, keep stealing glances at Monty to make sure he’s not trying to clamber out of his chair. Christian’s eating like the hounds of hell are chasing him, and checking his phone every few seconds. You try and keep up with his schedule but it changes too much and too often, and even though you love cars, you don’t love the business. 

“I just need to make some calls,” he says, dropping a fond kiss to your forehead before leaving the dining room. “Feel free to interrupt me later, please. I have a feeling this might be a dull one.”

Even if Mel thinks you’re a crashing bore now, Christian doesn’t, and you let yourself feel smug about that. For a minute. Until you’re struck by the fact that, no matter how many times you try, you can’t seem to stop making (wholly unnecessary) comparisons. Fucking brain. It’s one of the many things you’ve been working on during the past year. Ever since your friend had re-opened old wounds by airing a partial truth to the world, there’s been a constant recalibration, a watchfulness when it comes to how you act around her, how you talk about her. Sometimes you think it’s because you’re worried what people might think, and sometimes you let yourself admit that too much of it is because a small part of you is somehow more tempted now that people  _ know _ .

‘The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it’, you’d read once. Maybe Oscar Wilde? That in and of itself is tempting, the idea of just letting yourself embrace some of your long-buried desires and wants. Not the sexual ones, necessarily, but the others, ones that people probably wouldn’t take a second glance at if they noticed at all.

It’s ten o’clock when you slip into bed beside Christian, curling up at his side with a new book (it’s a retelling of some ancient Greek myth and it’s enthralling in a way you hadn’t expected). You’re only a few pages in when you find a quote that really hits home but when you turn to him to share it, he’s already asleep.

You dream of her. It’s not unusual, but when you wake up and can still feel her mouth on your skin, you let yourself think about it for more than the few seconds you usually limit yourself to. If you squeeze your eyes shut really hard and focus on the pictures (memories) your mind conjures up, you can almost pretend she’s beside you in bed. It doesn’t count, you tell yourself, if it’s not your conscious imaginings. 

She calls you while you’re in the stables waiting for the tack to be brought over in preparation for a ride, tells you with a slightly disbelieving laugh that she’s finally found a house for herself up in Leeds. Your congratulations is genuine, as is your shock when she invites you for a visit. 

“You can bring the kids if you want,” she clarifies. “I have room. Thought it might be nice to catch up.”

It’s not as though there are huge swathes of your life that have gone undiscussed, but whatever she chooses to call it, you want it. You _ want _ to see her and not just on a phone screen; you want to hold her and not have to do so in the guise of an emotional onstage moment. 

In the end, you go alone. 

* * *

She’s standing out the front of the house when you arrive, bouncing on the balls of her feet like she’s a girl of fifteen waiting on her date to arrive, and you know it’s a foolish comparison but you’re feeling oddly exhilarated. Bluebell and Monty are staying with your Mum for the weekend, Christian’s in Bahrain, and you’re here with Melanie. And you haven’t felt as  _ you _ in a long time.

You race to her, tuck your head into the crook of her neck as you hug her tightly where she stands on the stoop, your hands immediately finding their way under her jacket to rest at the back of her soft shirt. She looks good, more rested and content than you’ve seen her in years. 

“Didn’t want to dress up for me?” Mel says when you finally pull back, your hands resting on her shoulders so you can take everything in. She isn’t as tanned as when you last saw her in person, but her eyes look calmer somehow. “And after I made all this effort.”

You laugh. “The cheek of you.” The clean lines of your blouse and white denim shorts got somewhat crushed on the drive, and you smooth them down self-consciously until Mel rolls her eyes. 

“You look very pretty, Geraldine. Stop fussing and come inside.”

Apparently the sale had gone through a few weeks ago and while everything isn’t quite in its place, the family’s obviously been busy getting things set to rights. There’s an endearing combination of minimalist white and black, as well as lush patterned cushions and wall-hangings and it’s just so perfectly her that you can’t stop from gushing as she gives you the tour. Angel gives you a brief nod and grunt of acknowledgement as the two of you stick your heads into her bedroom, and Mel shoves your shoulder gently in solidarity. “What are they like, right? No respect.”

“Unlike us,” you retort. “Nothing but respect and obedience when we were her age.”

Mel snorts and puts a hand around your elbow to guide you along the hallway to show you Madi’s room, all painted in soft greens and yellows. “We’re hoping she’ll be able to come over next month,” she says on a heavy sigh. “He’s not making it easy.”

You talk about the situation sometimes on the phone but it’s clear from the way Mel’s expression shutters as you sit down on the edge of her daughter’s bed that things aren’t looking good. “If we - If I can help - ” She shushes you, cuts you off, but places a hand on your knee, her knuckles pale. You wish you could give her everything. 

There are photos all around the house, not as many as you have, but then, as Christian has pointed out before, not everyone feels the need to cover every surface with memories. “Ready to see my room?” She says it with a knowing wink, and you’re torn between your desire to slap her and embrace her. It’s hard to move on completely when she pulls you back. You don’t even think she does it intentionally, but then, she’s never quite understood the effect she has on you. 

“Always,” you say, grabbing her hand in yours and pulling the both of you up from the mattress. “And if there aren’t at least three photos of me in there, I will be leaving immediately so I can sulk at home and remove all the pictures of you.”

“You’re such a bitch.”

In the end, you count one framed photo of the two of you (lounging on a sunbed together in some location that you can’t quite place), and five with all the girls. She insists that it counts, but you choose faux anger instead, point out that you’re  _ different  _ and deserve more. The way she looks at you makes you worry you were too convincing, so you force a laugh and coo over the display of her costumes, touching the fabric of each as you pass it. You’d bet she could still fit into them too, her curves filling them out to perfection. 

The bathroom is absolutely stunning and you resist the urge to ask about the bench she has in the shower. You remember all too well one hotel in America where they’d had something similar, the way she’d lit up and told you all the things you’d be able to do with her in there. In the end, she’d hooked up with a waiter and you’d watched reruns of Gilligan’s Island alone. 

* * *

“Dante has been an absolute shithead,” she admits to you over dinner. “He won’t stop butting the sheep and Google hasn’t been any help.”

You laugh, wiping some sauce from the corner of your mouth and reaching for your glass of wine (you don’t drink anymore except when you do). “Sometimes there’s no fixing the stubborn, bossy ones. Or so I’ve heard...” 

The spare room you’re staying in for the weekend is cute, outfitted with an ensuite and fresh sheets and duvet. All in white. She’s probably taking the piss but you can’t bring yourself to care, and you care even less when you hear a knock on the door sometime after midnight and she doesn’t ask for permission before crawling into bed with you, curling around your body like a heat-seeking missile finding its target. 

She’s been much more open and vulnerable since her divorce, although not always with you, and so you don’t miss a beat when she whispers “Thank you” into the hair at the back of your neck. You squeeze her hands where they rest on your stomach, thanking her back. “I get lonely sometimes” she admits. 

“I think everyone does. You know you can call me whenever you want, though. And I’m sure there are others who could come visit if, you know, if you need…” You trail off, uncomfortable at voicing the thought in your head. Once upon a time, before you’d gone there with her, and even after as well, you wouldn’t have hesitated. Things have changed, not just for your relationship but for you as a person. It’s pathetic, and so you make yourself finish the thought. “If you need sex.”

Her left hand caresses the skin under your shirt, pinches gently. “That wasn’t so hard to say, was it, you prude. And I know,” she says, sighing, her voice a low, husky burr in your ear. “I’m trying to be good.”

“You are,” you reassure her. Her head rests on your shoulder and it’s a warm, comforting weight. You think it might be easier to talk like this, without having to see her eyes. “You know you are. You’ve always been a good person, Melanie. A good mother.”

Because that’s the crux of the matter, the fear that Madi will be poisoned against her, that she won’t be chosen if it ever comes to that. You can’t claim to understand it, but you want to. It’s incomprehensible how  _ anyone  _ could think Mel’s anything but wonderful, though. Even with all the shit that’s gone down, the turbulent relationship, the intentional and unintentional cruelty, there’s nobody you trust more apart from those in your immediate family.

When she presses kisses to your bare shoulder where your top is loose on your frame, you close your eyes against the emotion that fills you. What you have with Christian is good, wonderful and treasured, but nothing, nobody, has ever really matched Mel for how she makes you feel, not just in the giddy early days but for so long afterwards as well. You’ve never gotten bored and her touch still manages to make you feel at peace in a way that should probably concern you more than it does. It is what it is, though; you know that now, have accepted it. 

“Did you tell Christian where you were going?”

You nudge her arm a little, trying to let her know you need to move. She lets you go (and hasn’t she always) and you turn to face her, not leaving more than a breath of space between you. The first time you’d lain with her like this, she’d laughed nervously, confused by how you need to connect this way, to  _ see _ . Now she barely blinks, instead gathers you in close, her fingers tracing down the line of your forearms until they find your own digits and interlock. “I try not to keep anything from him, you know that. I told him, of course I did. He said to say hello.”

Mel grunts. Begrudging acceptance that you’re telling the truth. You try not to keep too much from her either these days. At least when she asks. 

“There’s no point in rolling your eyes, Melanie. He’s good for me.”

“All he does is smooth out all your edges.”

“Yes. That’s the point. I want to be a better person, darling. Those edges weren’t always  _ good _ things. I’m going to be fifty before you know it. I so do not need Monty going to school and his mates bullying him for having a mum who doesn’t dress her age and acts like an entitled attention-seeking teenager.”

You know she’d found other people to be that, the partner-in-crime, for her in Hollywood, Heidi and a few others besides. You’d resented it at first, had grown to feel grateful that the weight didn’t solely rest on you. Because it had become difficult. In the moment, wildness and insanity was a thrill, a line of adrenalin straight into the system. But the comedown, seeing and acknowledging the perception of you, adjusting to reality again… Sometimes it’s easier being on the ground instead of a tightrope. Even if you miss the headiness of being up there. Or in here. 

“He’s comfortable, Mel. In a way that you never were. There’s no second-guessing and no worrying and no long nights spent wishing I could read your mind because you would hardly ever ever let me in.”

It’s not an insult and you want to rush to reassure her. Instead you wait, wary. Your eyes are still adjusting to the almost total darkness of the bedroom, but you can see the way hers narrow, feel the way her grip tightens on your body. “I don’t know why you pretend you were somehow transparent and I was just some closed off sex machine. You liked it. You wanted it. You never said anything. You’re the one who fucking  _ left _ without a word.”

In one sense, she’s not wrong and you hate that. Unlike her, you have regrets that haunt you. Dropping your head to her chest and nestling closer is a decision, a deliberate choice. Her breasts are covered by the soft cotton of her pyjamas but their weight is firm against your cheeks. The duvet cocoons the two of you, and you relish the private intimacy of the moment. So often in the past ten years, you’ve been surrounded by band-members, family and friends, and employees or staff, and it’s been a stark contrast to how it used to be in the first days together. You’d been clinging to the promise of fame, working hard for it, but there had been quiet moments, long nights whispering secrets and dreams to each other. Those memories barely seem real anymore, so many years later.

“I keep trying to forgive you,” Mel admits, a soft, defeated exhale of an admission into the top of your head. Your hair is still a brassy red and you like it that way, a small connection to the Ginger who is long gone. You know the younger woman likes it as well, felt a weird stab of pride when she’d searched you out in your dressing room that first night on tour to curl strands around her fingers.  _ “Don’t even care if I mess it up,” _ she’d said.  _ “I missed this.” _

You fall asleep that way, listening to the steady, even breathing of an ex-lover. You don’t allow yourself to call her that in your mind very often (‘friend’ is safer, ‘bandmate’ even more so) because it makes you think things you would rather avoid. The pain of the separation, of the final ending, coloured the years prior for so long that you’re not sure there’ll ever be a time when you can simply reflect with fondness and appreciation. You don’t tell her that, of course. It’s a weakness you’re not willing to expose, not because you think Mel would scratch at that scab on purpose these days, but because saying it out loud is an opening of a door that you need to stay firmly shut. 

* * *

When you wake up the next morning, Mel’s already gone and the only trace of her is the faint scent of her on the pillow you’d shared. You don’t sniff it because this isn’t a romance novel and you aren’t some swain waiting for the princess to notice you. 

Her head turns the moment you enter the kitchen (you can smell bacon and eggs and sausages, and your stomach pinches at the prospect), and you wonder whether she carries the same awareness of you that you have of her. Even now. 

Instead of demanding answers immediately, you walk into her open arms. It’s a habit you’ll never break.


End file.
